the things we do for love
by curdled-milk
Summary: It had to be done. So she did it. Who could have predicted the consequences of a simple question?. one-shot


--disclaimer: I do not own HYD. If I did, I would be drawing comics, not writing this and posting it on a fanfiction site. I mean. Really. I don't own the characters. But I do own this mood piece. So there.--

She's tense against him. He cannot tell if it is the tension of anticipation, or of fear. The door has closed behind them, locked, as he steps closer, pulling her tightly against him. She shivers as his hands ghost across her belly, drift underneath her t-shirt to touch the soft, pale skin beneath. A hiss of indrawn breath, as she leans back against him, her arm arcing up to tangle in his hair. His lips soft, hot, against her neck, as she gasps, trembles, then startles as he sucks her dainty earlobe.

"Shh. . . don't be afraid. . ." He murmurs, uncertain of her state of mind. He has too often given her reason to fear.

"I'm not," She stammers, and he can swear he feels her skin warm beneath him as she flushes.

He's trying hard, so hard to be gentle. And she knows, in this, he has always been gentle, and patient. In his own unique way.

She's nervous. She won't deny that. Won't cheapen the moment by pretending false bravado like she has so often in the past. She's not quite terrified, but only just. She does want this. Even the wanting scares her.

He's waited forever, or so it seems, in the impatience of youth.

But she's here now, despite false starts in the past. Despite her tendency to flee, and his to overwhelm. They're here, they're ready. And they will make it work.

She's determined. When she gets that look in her eyes, well you know the world had better watch out.

So, she twists slightly in his arms, leans her face up to kiss him, tangles her hand in his wild hair, strokes his back, and revels in the feel of his lips on hers. He always did know how to kiss. His lips alone have been known to drive all coherent thought from her head, to leave her dazed for minutes, even hours, days afterwards. All to relive a few brief seconds of exquisite sensation. They used to confuse her, his kisses, so sweet, so seemingly at odds with his fiery nature. She knows better now, has come to accept the different faces of passion.

Her heart beats wildly against his as he slides his tongue along hers, dips in to caress her lip, teases her until her body is pressed against him as closely as their intervening clothes will allow.

"My neck is killing me," He pants irritably, breaking off the kiss.

"It's not my fault you're so bloody tall," she retorts, the huskiness in her voice belying the glare she levels at him.

"You're the dwarf." He snorts, "Stunted. Like Bonsai." Her look of outrage is ignored as he lifts her bodily off her feet and deposits her on the bed.

"I'm not a bloody tree!" she protests, as he stretches out alongside her, runs his hand along her spine, and dips in for another assault on her lips.

"No," he mumbles agreeably, as she squirms deliciously against him, "You're a weed. We know. We know already."

"Assface." She feels the need to smack his smug visage, but instead settles for nipping at his lower lip, and swatting at his rear. His retaliation is sudden and swift, rolling her over, looming above, his weight supported on his elbows, legs tangled with hers. She leans up, drags his face back to hers, while he tries to figure out how his hands can get in on the action, without allowing his weight to crush her. Irritably she shoves him back on his side, takes his free hand, and shows him where she wants it to be.

His eyes widen, and she looks away, lashes lowered to hide her embarrassment. As if that crimson flush staining her cheeks, her neck. . . and oh dear god he wanted to see how much else. . . could be missed. As if in awe, he flexes his fingers gently, palms her small breast, feels her pert nipple against his hand. Hungrily, his lips descend to her neck, to that tiny flashing pulse he can sense there, while his hand caresses her, cautiously, hardly daring to believe that she would allow this. No, that she would encourage it, with her breathy sighs, and her restless hands, wandering up his neck, through his hair, down his arm, and back.

It is not enough. He wants more.

"Shirt. . .Off?" He tugs hopefully at the hem, and nodding, blushing, she helps him to draw it over her head. It takes only seconds more to divest himself of his top. She's seen it all before, and he still takes her breath away, ashamed as she is of her own modest looks. But he's not thinking of that. At best, his mind can only muster the limited thought, "Breast soft." Or perhaps, "I can't believe she's finally letting me touch these."

And let him, she is. Hell, she's overcome her innate prudishness to let her hands slide up his toned chest, down his flanks, and even over his designer-jeans clad ass. His hands are shaking, yes, shaking, as he fumbles with her bra. Never understood why she bothers anyway, it's not as if she's big enough to need the support. Not that he'd dare mention it. Not again. Not after the look, the slap, the tears and the angry silence one wayward comment had once earned him. He would never understand women.

Make that Woman. This Woman. Maybe that was why he loved her, she is a mystery, and yet her eyes are an open book in which he read so much. She is his everything.

Still, the bra continues to frustrate him, and his lips are moving as he mutters under his breath, thinking, trying to remember what those worthless friends of his told him. Finally, she takes pity on him, pretending not to notice the angry flush that had started to spread. She's suddenly tense, suddenly shy, at letting the cloth fall away.

He's seen it before. In accidents and stolen glances, but never like this. Never with the heart fluttering beneath his palm, the pink nipples straining in the air. And Oh gods, he wants her, like nothing he has ever wanted before. But he has to be gentle. He promised to be gentle. He's scared her too often in the past. This time will be right. This time will be perfect.

He must be doing something right. She's not running away. She most definitely is not running away. She's pressing against him, and squirming, and where in hell did she learn to do that? He must've asked that aloud, because she stiffens, forces herself to relax, buries her head against his chest, and mutters, "Sakurako."

"Keep going. Please." He begs, his voice hoarse with need. But he's scared her, and she backs off a little, until, in desperation, he remembers something Soujiro had told him, and bends down to suck one nipple into his hot and hungry mouth.

"Oh!" she gasps, and grips his bum in her surprisingly strong hands. He takes that as encouragement, and fumbles with her skirt. Damnit! Where's the zipper, and how in hell does he slide it off her hips from this position? He doesn't even realizing he's mumbling again. "Let me." She draws back, kneels, slips off the offending garment. She pauses, looks up, her eyes hard and bright and determined, meeting his with a ferocity that has nothing to do with passion, and everything to do with terror. She feels terribly exposed, and ugly and inadequate. Sure, sure, he says he loves her, warts and all. And he fights her and fights for her at every turn. But, still, she knows who she is and what he is, and she is frightened. Of herself, of him, of this, of what they could become.

But because she knows she is afraid, and knows what she is afraid of, she sets her jaw and fights it. Before his confused gaze she turns, slides her last remaining garment down her hips, around her knees, ankles, and off. Still, she can't quite dare to turn around, to face him fully exposed, and so he comes to her.

He kneels behind her on the bed, hugging her to him, his arms wrapped around her. comforter before lover.

The truth? He needs the comfort just as much as she. He knows what he wants, has wanted for so long. But he too is scared. He too is nervous, scared of what he feels for her, and how she makes him feel. But above all, scared because he too has never done this, and he feels clumsy and inept, and they are the blind leading the blind. So he whispers sweet nothings against her neck and holds her until the trembling stops. He can't take this waiting, this build-up too much longer, or he's afraid he may explode.

She's come this far, and she is not backing out now. She prepared herself for this moment, and nothing will stop them this time. At last, she turns to him, lets her hand trace the curve of his knee, as he kneels behind her, lets it slide hesitantly up his thigh, inward, until his hiss of indrawn breath tells her she has arrived. As if she couldn't feel him straining against her palm. Clumsily, he helps her with the button, the zip, draws back and tears his pants and boxers off in one swift jerk. She's still kneeling there between his thighs, staring, and he doesn't know what to do.

She doesn't either, so she reaches out, caresses him, letting her calloused fingers explore the proud cock before her. He is frozen. He still doesn't know what to do. She is overwhelming him, and he can still hear the voices of his friends in his ear, instructing, gossiping, bragging. He wonders how much of what they told him is true, how much is humanly possible, how much she will let him do.

Finally, he regains some semblance of control, shoves the voices from his mind, and draws her down beside him. Until he figures out what to do next, he thinks he'll kiss her senseless. He never could get enough of her lips, her tongue, the sighs and gasps he elicits from her.

And who knew it was so much better skin to skin? Slick sweat, tangled limbs, they move against each other. Some of it feels good, some just awkward—How did her elbow get there? And why are his toes so cold? He wants more. He wants to know how it feels—In there. Akira and Soujiro have tried to explain it to him, but he doesn't know if he can believe a word they say. He doesn't know how to make it good for her. Though she seems to be enjoying this just fine. There was something about using his fingers? And they went on about how he could use his tongue—But he doesn't think he's ready for that. Hell, she'd probably slap him if he tried. She's a prude, but she's His prude.

But, fingers? Yes. He splays his hand against her belly, drags it down where she never let him touch before. And she doesn't pull his hand away like she had every time he'd ever tried before. Hell, she was just touching his most private bits, after all. And now she's arcing against his fingers as they drift through her patch of curls, slide down into her mystery. She's slick and wet, and when he looks down at her face she is blushing and embarrassed and needy all at once. Its wonderful, and she feels so good against his fingers, that he knows he will find heaven there, if only she will let him.

He kisses her, and clumsily tries to find his way. What? It seems like such a simple thing. Line up the parts and go.

It is not so simple, and she squirms away, gasping

"Doumyouji!" That tone of voice she uses when she is truly upset.

What? What did he do? She's stiff and beet red, and shaking as she tries to get the words out.

"P. . . Pro. . . Protection!" She gasps, and looks away, her cheeks flaming.

Shit! He can't believe he almost forgot. After the lectures they'd given him. The humiliation, that the day before it had been Rui! Rui, of all people, to slip him the package! As if he couldn't buy the damned things himself. The humiliation as he realized, he would have forgotten what everyone else seemed to have remembered.

He twists violently away and fumbles on the floor for his jeans, rooting in the pockets until he finds what he's looking for. But the moment is lost.

Long moments, and much usage of lips and tongues and fingers later, the moment is returned. He struggles to sit, to open the package, dexterity lost to nervousness and desire and the trembling of fingers. She sits with him, stills his hands, guides it on, never once making eye contact as her fingers ghost across his fevered skin.

"A. . . S. . Sakurako told me. . ." She murmurs in explanation, as if she can feel his eyes boring into the back of her head.

"Not Akira? Soujiro?" He says it laughingly, but there is a tremor and an edge in his voice.

"Well," she shrugs, and squirms against his side, "They tried. I. . . I kinda. . . ran away."

"I love you." He says and pulls her to him. His sweet, sexy, shy, innocent Makino. Even this, even now. She is innocent to him.

She blinks and gazes up at him wide-eyed. The moment is now. They're still not quite sure how to proceed. Fumbling teenagers, the both of them. She sees him fighting with himself, the animal within. He is strong and passionate, and he wants her. He is afraid of hurting her, of destroying this fragile thing they have. She won't let him. She is prepared. Her nerves are anything but steady, as she kisses him and murmurs against his lips, "If you don't mind. . . Sakurako told me what to do? I think. . ."

He seems almost relieved, if confused at her initiative. And more than a bit dismayed to find how much the other girl seems to have educated her. Maybe he should have paid more attention to the advice his friends gave him. He doesn't stop her as she pushes him to his back, straddles him, leans down to kiss him. He can feel her heat, her moisture upon him as she slides forward, along his length. He's not in her, but oh how he wants to be. His hips buck reflexively as her lips caress his.

She thinks she's ready now, she pushes up slightly, grasps him, and awkwardly positions herself. He reaches to grasp her hips, steadies her, looks with awe upon his brave beauty. He is controlling himself with great difficulty.

"I don't want to hurt you." He hears the words slip from his mouth with dismay.

She musters a smile. Now is not the time for words, but she is scared, and he is so big. She always did babble in times of stress, "It's ok." She whispers, her gaze falling somewhere to his left, eyes downcast, "I bet the idiots filled your head with nonsense about the "maidenhead" and blood and gore. It's not like that." She's sure she's never blushed more in her entire life, as she lets herself sink onto him, just a little, gasps, and continues, "I'm 18, it, well it's supposed to go away on its own eventually. And if hadn't, well, I. . . I took care of it." She pushes a little further down. Her thighs are trembling with the effort of holding herself still, as are his.

"Took care of it?" He echoes stupidly, "Idiot woman, what in hell do you mean?" He can barely speak, he is in such a state of bliss. It's a wonder she can hold her train of thought at a moment like this.

"I was scared. Ahh!" she gasps as she feels him twitch within her, "I used my fingers." This is a lie. But he accepts it without question. It's doubtful he really hears her right now. It's doubtful he has any more thoughts in his brain than, "hot" and "tight" and "wet" and "heaven" and "More!"

She sighs as she sinks completely down on him, "But it still fucking hurts! Idiot! You're too goddamned big!" She punches him on the chest.

"Me, you're the one who's a fucking midget!" they've had this argument before, undoubtedly they'll have it again. But not now. For she has begun to move. She is tentative, uncertain, awkward. He doesn't care, because it feels so wonderful, sliding in her, and she feels wonderful, and she is his. She is starting to get the hang of it, or maybe it is hurting less, and she speeds up, and he can't hold back any more, and thrusts against her, and grinds, and pants, and she feels him tighten, and lose control, shudder, and relax. She wonders how he would feel inside her without the condom. He is softening in her, and she wishes she had felt what he had, though she hadn't expected to. She'd been warned what to expect. She slides off him and curls up at his side while he pants and stares at her in awe. He had no idea it would feel so good. His own hand didn't hold a candle to her.

He strokes her hair, her back, kisses her, and she feels as though she is drowning in him, in his love, and she doesn't need him in her to arch her back, and feel her world explode, when he nibbles her neck, slips his hand down her breast, past her belly, and gently parts her with his fingers, caresses her softness, and finds that elusive bundle of nerves that Soujiro once lectured him about for over an hour.

So. Maybe she hadn't quite been right about what to expect. After all, she'd gotten her lesson from Akira, not Sakurako, and how were either of them to know how clever Doumyouji was with his hands, or how much time he'd spent dragging details out of Soujiro on how to please a woman, if he came before she did.

Yes. Akira. She'd been afraid, a bundle of nervous energy, when Tsukasa had called her to tell her he was coming home, and she was going on vacation with him. She knew what was coming, she'd longed for it. But she was afraid. And so she sought advice.

Sakurako? Yes Sakurako would know. She was experienced. Tsukushi didn't trust her further than she could throw her. She remembered schemes and lies to steal her man. Who knew how she might take advantage of her ignorance. Shigeru? No, she was enthusiastic and eager, but equally inexperienced. Yuki? Tsukushi loved her dearly, but didn't think a one night stand with Nishikado qualified her for advice on this situation. Nishikado himself? He probably knew, or thought he knew everything, but he was the world's worst gossip. She'd never hear the end of it! Rui? She couldn't imagine asking him. It would be awkward, like rubbing salt in his wounds. She would die from the shame of it. That left Mimasaka. She'd convinced herself he was a good choice. She knew he really did care for his girlfriends. He didn't kiss and tell like Nishikado. He could keep a secret. And, she always felt that he was a closet romantic. So she'd drawn him aside one day and asked for advice. What to expect, how to make it less awkward, for the both of them.

He'd almost laughed, but he'd seen the determination in her eyes, the courage it had taken her to ask, the fear she must have felt that drove her to seek his help in the first place. He hadn't laughed, then. He'd taken her home, sat her down, and looked her in the eye.

"I don't know what to say." He'd admitted, "I don't think I've ever actually slept with a virgin. I mean, I kinda thought I had once, but that was Sakurako acting, and she's probably as experienced as I am." It was true, older women were his vice of choice, and even those that weren't married were at least experienced.

"So you can't help?" She'd blushed, looked away to hide the disappointment.

"I didn't say that." Akira had mused, "I remember my first time. That was kind of a fiasco. So was Soujiro's come to think of it."

"That doesn't make me feel any better." She'd muttered.

"No, no. It just means, that you can't mess up, whatever you do!" He'd protested. "He's going to be clumsy, and overenthusiastic, and it'll be over too soon, and, well. . . you probably won't enjoy it much." She'd gone paler and paler as he spoke. It was just what she was afraid of. "Aw, shit. Come on Makino, what did you expect? It is Doumyouji after all!"

"That's why I'm asking for help." She'd flushed angrily and grit her teeth with embarrassment. "What can I do to make it not suck so much?"

"First off, that attitude has got to go! Even bad sex is good sex!" He'd admonished. She'd remained unconvinced, and muttered something about how maybe this was a bad idea and she'd better leave. "No, no! I've got it!" He'd snapped his fingers in triumph. He'd been thinking about this all wrong. He'd been approaching it from the Tsukasa as instigator, Tsukasa as motivator, and Tsukasa as the one driving the action. However, if she seriously wanted to make this less bad, and as minimally painful as possible, she would have to take the lead.

"I don't know if I can do that." She'd admitted in a small voice, when he'd told her what she had to do.

"Nonsense!" He'd been on a roll, "Aren't you the weed? You took on the F4, I hardly think a little sex is going to slow you down."

"I don't know how. . ." he hadn't known she could blush like that.

"Let me show you."

"What! Mimasaka, what are you doing!?"

"Relax, I can show you what to do. But you have to trust me."

"Get away! Hands! Keep them to yourself!"

"How about my lips?"

"What!?" A startled squawk of outrage, "Mimasaka.. . . st.. . stop. . ." Her fist had clenched to punch him, he'd caught her wrist in one hand, twisted away to avoid her knee.

"Makino." He'd sat back, put on his most reasonable face, kept a tight grip on her wrists, and had his say, "It's the only way I know, if you want to make it good, make it special—for Him, then you need to know what you're doing. You need to be comfortable doing it. You need to take the lead. I can't tell you how to do it. I can't tell you what to do. I can only show you. Trust me. I won't rape you. You asked for my help. I'm giving it."

And god help her, she had lost her mind. She had acquiesced. She remembered his lips, the taste of him, so different from Doumyouji. She remembered him telling her that she was going to have to help Doumyouji with her clothes. Akira had had no troubles with the bra at all. She remembered his hands. He'd let himself cautiously wander over her skin, skimming here and there. He'd listened for her breathy sighs that told him just what she liked. Places and sensations she hadn't known were such heaven. He'd told her when Doumyouji hesitated or got confused, or when she needed more, just where to place his hands. He'd known she was a virgin, of course. Everyone knew. He'd warned her that Doumyouji would likely hurt her in his clumsiness and his eagerness. He'd offered to prepare her the only way he knew. She'd let his fingers slide into her, delicious friction as he'd probed, explored and gave her pleasure. He'd taught her about the bundle of nerves that so many men missed, and how to make sure Doumyouji found it. He'd held her, kissed away her pain, as his fingers flexed and tore away what little remained of that troublesome hymen. He'd even told her how to explain away the lack of blood, if Tsukasa should be observant enough to ask. He'd warned her that it would still hurt, using a whole new set of muscles, accommodating a part of Doumyouji that was much larger than Akira's own delicate fingers. He'd pulled her on top of him, showed her how to move. Told her how to guide Doumyouji, and prolong the moment, how to keep control. He'd almost wished she'd let him enter her. He'd known that was reserved for Tsukasa, but that hadn't stopped him from dreaming, hadn't stopped him from wishing to taste her, or praying that she would ask him for instructions on how to use her own mouth to maximum effect. Silly virgin girl hadn't a clue what she in her innocence and her need did to him. He'd delayed as long as possible, kissing her, holding her, touching her, never letting her come to her senses and stop his hungry caresses. It had to end. He knew that. He ended it well, clever fingers working his magic. He'd held her as she came, etching the memory of her face into his mind forever. He'd kissed her, told her not to be afraid, not to be ashamed, not to regret a thing, and to remember his lessons, as just that. Lessons and nothing more. Wished her luck taming her wild beast. He prayed that she would use his lessons well.

And after she'd left, he'd brought himself off, faster and more intensely than he could remember in ages. Innocent little Makino had no idea what she'd done to him. Could never know what she'd done to him.

He buried the memories of her sweet lips, her trembling breasts, that mole on the inside of her thigh, the awe on her face as the last shudders reverberated through her sated body as far as he could in his subconscious. He told himself he'd done it for her, for Tsukasa. He knew he lied.

In another time, another place, the new lovers curl against each other, chests heaving with unfamiliar exertion, sweat cooling in the air.

"Makino?"

'Mmm?"

"Can we do it again?"

"Already? So soon? Is that even possible?! Oversexed freak!" she moans against him. She knows she's going to be sore for days.

"Hey! I'm a guy! A teenage guy! This is perfectly natural!" He flushes, defensive, "Didn't you like it?" worry stabs his chest with ice.

She sighs, moulds herself against him, kisses him to show him just how much she liked it. (She'd been warned he might feel insecure. She didn't need the warning. She knows her man.) "Of. . . Of course I did." She stammers, breaking off the kiss. "It's just. . . I'm. . . a little sore. . ."

"Oh. Oh!" comprehension widens his eyes, and he stiffens, worried that he hurt her after all.

"S'ok." She murmurs, throwing her leg over his, sliding her hand down his flat stomach to caress the stirring flesh below, "I'd do it again. I'd do everything again." And it is only in the depths of her mind that she acknowledges the emphasis on Everything.

Long moments later, his pulse is speeding again, and his breaths are shallow. He had no idea that her inexperienced, awkward hands could feel so much better, so different than his own familiar strokes. No idea that the feel of her rear squirming in his hands, her nipple against his lips could set his blood to boiling in a way that rage never could. His voice, when he speaks again, is hoarse with desire, deep with need.

"Makino?"

"Mmm? . . ."

"Please. Can we do it again? Now?"

-End-

---well, I guess this is the first time I've really written smut. And nothing but smut. For over 4000 words. I even gave it an M rating. For once. Dear lord. I feel dirty. But I had a bad week. And this cheered me up. As do phrases that aren't quite proper sentences. So I guess it was worth it. Questions, comments? I may even check my email this week. Curdled(dot)milk(at)gmail(dot)com.---


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